MRLD: Volume 1
by TheUnHolySmirk
Summary: Three years after his victory over Voldemort his fourth year, Harry decided he needed a change of scenery. A high octane world of strange creatures and stranger superheroes seemed right up his alley. But what was the mysterious Headmaster hiding, and what did it have to do with him?
1. Chapter 1

Harry Potter was never one to go looking for trouble, but for a reason unbeknownst to him, the same couldn't be said the other way around.

"You lot were worth every cent, truly." Green irises turned towards the source of a rather pompous voice; a flamboyant pimp surrounded by generic black and red thug-types facing off against a small, cloaked child wielding a mechanical gardening tool twice as long as she was tall.

And he thought the _Wizarding_ World was strange.

Releasing a sigh, he began to walk over to the commotion, pulling up his Hood and disappearing from view. _'It was a nice night, as well,' _he lamented.

Harry stepped over the shattered remains of the storefront and checked on the elderly man hiding behind the counter, clutching his chest in a panic. His breathing was erratic and laboured, and at his age, he could have easily suffered a heart attack from the stress.

Not very impressed with the reckless destruction caused by Little Miss Trigger-Happy and the Bowler-Sexual, Harry made a couple vague gestures with his right hand (more from habit than anything), first towards the shaking man and then towards the ransacked shop.

It was as if a bomb had gone off in reverse. A glowing, vaguely energetic powder flew into the air as shattered glass reformed around it, the full vials clinking down back onto newly repaired shelves; scorch and burn marks vanished in a blink as fastenings straightened out and realigned themselves. Torn magazines were healed and neatly stacked back into order, as a fallen florescent light reattached to the ceiling, its cracks melting away. Broomsticks walked back behind the counter, cleaning up bits of plaster and debris as they went. The entire process took less than a minute.

The shop-owner swayed drunkenly, the calming charm slowly taking hold as his breathing evened out. He had the shell-shocked expression of someone who wasn't entirely believing their eyes but was grateful all the same.

Still, he remained much more accepting of the process than any civilian Harry had ever met; granted his previous sample size was limited to his homeworld. This "Remnant" was a fascinating blend of modern and archaic. Stylised lamps line the street, but each one was holographically projected above the sides of the road. Vaguely Victorian style clothes intermixed with medieval armour, eastern and western cloth draped over the average Joe. Maybe the supernatural was commonplace here.

Regardless, people could get hurt. Though the street was abandoned at the time, as the events were currently proceeding, a building could collapse on countless innocents. Blame his Gryffindor side, or maybe his so-called "saving people thing", but Harry couldn't allow that.

"Now, what would Hermione do?" Over the years, such a phrase dictated quite a few of Harry's choices since he first learned he was a wizard, and he found asking himself that question tended to lead to the best possible outcome.

So what would the Creature Rights Warrior try first? Ah, yes: diplomacy.

"Excuse me?" Harry called out to the group. "It's quite late, isn't it? Do you think you could maybe hold off of endangering the public until the morning?"

Okay, so maybe diplomacy wasn't exactly his strong suit, sue him.

"It's okay, sir, I've got him! I'm a huntress, and I will protect you from all harm!" The child yelled, turning her head towards him.

"Oh, _joy_, a fellow Gryff," Harry mumbled, rolling his eyes, as the lanky fellow lifting his walking cane out towards the girl. The first rule of combat: never remove your eyes from the threat.

The heat from the blast was much greater than Harry anticipated, his eyes squeezing shut from the sudden light. If it weren't for his Hood cocooning around his body, he would have been blown off his feet. Instead, he felt a pleasant, flowing sensation as the flames washed over his form, leaving him unscathed.

"Thanks," he whispered under his breath. The Hood fluttered in an intangible breeze. "Shit! The girl!" His eyes flew open in panic, just in time to see the child slightly smoking, but none the worse for wear. Harry watched as she shook off the shock, dusted debris from her skirt, and ran after the running man.

_'__What the hell?' _He blinked multiple times to confirm what he had just seen, and sure enough, she was totally fine, still lugging that giant blade behind her. Before Harry could call out to her, just to make sure we were alright, she morphed into a swirl of red… _somethings…_ before dashing off, faster than his _Firebolt_.

"Merlin's bollocks…" he swore, before shaking his head and following.

* * *

THREE WEEKS LATER

* * *

"Mr. Mithryl?" A sharp voice cut through Harry's sleep. "Mr. Mithryl, are you awake?" That would be Professor Goodwitch, the beautiful Deputy, and the one who intervened in Harry's small soirée three weeks ago.

_"__Unbelievably reckless! Endangering the public! Trying to take on Roman Torchwick of all people! I should do well to turn you over to the authorities, or better yet your parents!" The well-dressed woman was pacing across the table from Harry, ranting at him while he sipped on a cold cup of tea._

_"__Well, in that case, _Professor_," he said quietly, "Bring me to the nearest precinct because my parents were murdered when I was a year old."_

_She gasped quietly at the ice in his voice, turning towards him. The apology was already prepped on her lips._

_"__It's alright," Harry interrupted, not meeting her eyes, "You couldn't have known."_

_She sat down, and Harry finished his drink in silence._

"Yes, Professor." He yelled at the opposite wall, vaguely in the direction of the door. "I'm up."

In Harry's eyes, Goodwitch was a much younger, hotter version of McGonagall; though he would never dare say so out loud, lest she overhears. She was a stern, strict, stickler for the rules, but in her eyes, he could see the care she held for all of her charges.

Harry peered around his temporary room. It was quite bare, with a single window allowing for a small amount of natural light to cast shadows across the opposite wall. There were four beds, one of which he slept in and another which he placed his things, all of which had no sheets or bedding. A light layer of dust presided on every surface, and in the corner of the room, a small, practical desk occupied space. It was all quite peaceful, but very empty. Harry snorted to himself, imagining how profound that would sound to a more practiced ear like Hermione's, trying to find some metaphor in every little thing.

"The students will arrive in an hour's time, and I expect you to be present for the opening speech in the auditorium. Understood?"

"Yes Professor." Bleary-eyed, Harry slid open the strange miniature computer gifted to him by the school's Head, Ozpin. It was some mix of a tablet, a video phone, and a holographic identification card. He called it a "scroll".

_You have: 1 NEW MESSAGE_

The notification blinked at him. He reached up and tapped the blue screen, expanding the box. It was a map, presumably to the said auditorium.

_'__Time to face the music.'_

Harry swung his legs off his cot, twisting back and forth to a cacophony of pops in his spine. He rolled his shoulders to release the remaining tension and soreness, before hopping out of the bed. Picking up the first set of clothing he could grab (variety was never really his thing), he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and walked towards the bathroom, snatching the towel hanging off his desk chair.

After a brief shower, and taking care of the rest of his facilities, he checked his scroll again. Twenty-two minutes until touchdown.

_'__May as well be a bit early_._'_ Checking himself in the mirror once more, Harry (or _Harley Mithryl_ according to his scroll) made his way down to the landing site.

"Come on." He nodded his head towards the open door. A pool of cloth, almost invisible in the shadowed corner of the room, _slithered_ over to him and flew up his leg. The makeshift shawl wrapped around his torso, before melting into a simple black hoodie. The familiar cooling sensation was an easy comfort for Harry. He sighed in relief.

"Alright," he smiled, "Let's go."

* * *

Lavender Brown wasn't the smartest girl. She knew that.

She wasn't the best fighter. She knew that as well.

But regardless, Lavender knew for certain that she wasn't just hallucinating when she saw _Harry freaking Potter_ milling about the station, not a care in the world.

Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, somehow made his way to Remnant, to Beacon Academy. She opened her mouth, ready to shout out to him when she stopped. What could she say? They were friendly, but they weren't friends. The last they saw each other had to have been three years ago, after Cedric's death. After Harry finally defeated Voldemort. A fourteen-year-old boy ended a war that lasted decades, before vanishing from the face of the Earth. What could she say to someone like that?

_"__Hey Harry, remember me? We had a few classes together. How's life been since you saved the world? What am I doing in this alternate reality? Oh, just made a little deal with a god. Doing him a favour. What's new with you?"_

Yeah, that sounds fantastic.

_'__I'll talk to him later,'_ she thought. _'I mean, what's the point now, right?'_

Lavender turned around, determined to think about something else, and so she missed a pair of bright emerald eyes locking in on her retreating form.

* * *

_'__Is that… Lavender Brown?'_

Even with the local fashion sense, slightly tanned skin, and new hairdo, the face was unmistakable. It was definitely Hermione's old roommate.

_'__Jesus Christ, how the hell did she get here?'_

Harry was preparing to run after her when his Hood tightened across his chest; _a warning_.

"What?" He whispered. "What's wrong? I'm just going to talk to her."

The cloth started to press against his chest, hard enough to make breathing uncomfortable. The message was clear: _don't._

"Why not?" No change. No answer.

"Alright, well, I'm going to have to see her eventually if we're going to school together. The most I can do is wait." The pressure let off, the jacket expanding and letting him breathe easier.

Wait it is, then.

When Harry looked back up again, he was shocked to see that everyone else had left, save a few stragglers.

_'__Well I guess they're all excited,'_ he thought to himself. He might as well walk over to the-

_BOOM!_

'_… __The fuck?'_ Even for Harry, two explosions in three weeks is pushing the boundaries of luck. Some God of Gunpowder was probably out to get him.

He ran over to the source of the noise, only to sweatdrop when he saw who was at the centre of the crater. That cloak was definitely one of a kind.

_'__Just my luck.'_ He rolled his eyes. "Are you all right?" He asked, wincing when he fully remembered who he was speaking to. '_Oh please don't start-'_

"HARLEY!" The little she-demon squealed.

_Sigh_. "Hullo, Ruby."

Ms. Ruby Rose, a fifteen-year-old combat prodigy who was aspiring to be a paid superhero. Super-_mercenary? _Super-_cop? _Super-cop_. _Though, singling Rose out was probably unfair considering that they were literally standing in a school that specialises in training super-cop wannabes. She was one among the masses, granted a tad younger than the rest. Regardless, her arms were wrapped around Harry's midriff, cutting off all manners of circulation and slowly cutting off his oxygen. Her smaller stature was quite deceptive to the surprising amount of strength she held in her frame.

"And who might _you _be?"

Harry looked up at the woman who so rudely addressed him. She was very… white. Yeah, that summed it up nicely. She wore a white jacket and a matching skirt with a few flecks of grey tossed in for variety, a silver rapier strapped to her side. Her accessories were white and her hair was (surprise, surprise) white.

"Harry." He answered flippantly.

The young wizard figured that it must have been absolute murder to maintain such a spotless appearance. Honestly, it was quite the reasonable choice for someone who aspired to spend copious amounts of time in combat out at the Wilds.

His sarcastic thoughts must have been detectable in his expressions, because the pseudo princess turned her nose up at him, radiating her arrogance. "_I'm sorry?_" She asked, her upper lip receding into her face. "Introduce yourself _properly_! _Bow_! Take my hand and _don't_ look at my face whilst you speak. Give me your last name first and then your given name _if I request it_." She lectured as if speaking to a particularly slow _child_.

Everything about her simply screamed "PUREBLOOD" straight out of the wars, and Harry hated it. He hated it for all the Pureblood jackasses that landed on their feet, without a hair out of place. For every rich prick that threw around enough money to buy their atonement, while his own Godfather rotted for twelve years in an unspeakable prison without any form of conviction or guilt. For every bastard that those peacocks raised, who would strut about his first home doing whatever they wished without fear of respite from anyone.

_They dared follow him into his sanctuary? To continue his torment years after he left?_

His sclera turned black, and the hollow features of his face were accentuated to give him a slightly ethereal look. His flesh flickered, briefly revealing the bone underneath. When he spoke, a softer, hissing undertone spoke in tandem, whispering directly into the brat's ear, reverberating in her skull.

"_I am a demon who could kill you in two words._" He intoned, almost whispering. "_With nary a thought, I could rip apart your mind from within, scattering your consciousness throughout the cosmos. I could make your blood boil and your skin melt from your brittle bones, keeping you alive just to witness your torture. I can do all of this and more without breaking a sweat, and you have the gall to demand I kneel?_

"_Here's your introduction, Snow-Bitch,_" his mouth peeling back in a cruel grin to reveal rows of jagged teeth, bared to strike at her oh, so exposed throat. "_I am your _Nightmare."

* * *

End of Chapter ONE

* * *

A/N: This is not a Harry untouched by the war. It took everything from him before he finished puberty, and that left a scar much deeper than the one on his forehead. In this AU, Harry killed Voldy his fourth year. What happened to him the three years after, pre-Remnant, will be revealed in time, but not quite yet. Just know that all will be revealed eventually.

A child soldier is never undamaged, and Harry killed a man with his bare hands when he was eleven.

-The UnHoly Smirk


	2. Chapter 2

As she crashed into a stone fountain, smashing it to rubble in the process, Weiss Schnee reflected on just how terrible her day had been.

The ride to the school was late; she was waylaid by her annoying little brother; the bullhead was practically an antique wagon; a girl who looked far too young to be at such an establishment knocked over her neatly stacked luggage that she had spent the past _ten minutes_ moving onto a bell cart (the lack of a team of butlers and servants hitting her harder than she predicted); and to add insult to injury, the particular cases the clumsy girl bowled over carelessly just _happened_ to contain all of Weiss' Dust. Any neanderthal should have realised how volatile such substances were, and the fact that this _child_ didn't seem to understand what she almost caused was, frankly, infuriating.

Then the idiot sneezed. _Sneezed!_ Right into a cloud of loose Dust kicked up when she broke open her cases. Of course, it ignited!

And just when the heiress was about to inform the Red Menace of her idiocy, some green-eyed barbarian with unkempt hair interrupted her without acknowledging her presence, or even announcing himself with dignity. It was unbelievably rude! When Weiss confronted him about it, the brute _attacked her_, grabbing her by the throat and _threatening_ her while she made multiple swipes at the rapier on her belt.

Which finally leads to her current predicament. Aura or not — being tossed into concrete was a _bitch!_

That _peon_ would _pay_ for his slight against her.

Weiss raised her foil with practiced ease; not a single motion was wasted as she traced out a glyph. Brilliant patterns resembling a snowflake formed in mid-air before her, glowing bright white as branches and points crystallised into existence. Eyes narrowed, she swiped her rapier across her chest, shooting the construct at her attacker, before flying after it for a follow-up attack.

Poised to strike, gliding across the ground, Weiss was ready to unleash hell. She would _destroy_ that treacherous rogue and then have him expelled for attacking her. The entire weight of the Schnee family would lynch him for attacking its heiress.

So focused on her future ambitions, Weiss didn't have time to realise her glyph had stopped moving until she crashed into it. The previously immaculate lines shattered on impact into sharp fragments reorienting behind her, white light quickly dimming into empty darkness. The outer edges of the glyph fractured into three points, forming a crude triangle turning around a pillar of shadow bisecting it. The inner workings of the glyph spun into a ring floating in the centre of the new construct; a cacophony of voices _whispering_ unintelligibly into Weiss's ears, getting louder and more desperate every second.

Weiss came to Beacon to become a Huntress! It was her job to defend and aid those in need of her. Her vision tunneled, her peripherals blurring away as the ambient noise of the school was completely overtaken by the voices, now practically shouting. She reached an empty hand out to the spinning source of agony. Where was her rapier? Unimportant. Her hand drew even closer; she could reach out and touch it. When had she gotten so close? _Unimportant. _Twenty centimetres away. What was her name again? _Unimportant!_

She could fully hear their screams now.

_Help us!_

Fifteen centimetres.

_You're our only hope! Please!_

Five.

_Save us! Save us all!_

One.

A single, pale finger broke the surface of the glyph.

Nothing.

Wait.

No.

_Everything_.

_Burning flesh and decay filled her nostrils as her lungs took in ash and dust. The heat from blazing homes and fresh blood was sweltering. Helpless families were drowning in an unending tide of Grimm razing their village. Bits and pieces of fallen soldiers littered the floor, none of which were bigger than a torso. Mangled corpses of children and adults alike were being ravaged by feasting Beowolves, their snarls drowning out the screams._

_Ursai by the dozen were bowling over walls and structures, swiping at fathers desperately trying to protect their progeny. Sobbing mothers were holding onto their kin in a tight embrace, shielding them with their bodies as Creeps lunged at their backs. Huntsmen and Huntresses were cradling their fallen comrades, Aura spent, frantically keeping their innards from falling out their open abdomens_

_Weiss gagged, eyes tearing up at the gruesome scene. The world shifted._

_A frontier town was raided by bandits led by a masked demon._

_White Fang executing a kneeling man, a bag over his head and his family beside him._

_A woman of fire burning a small village._

_Masked men in black robes surrounding a girl screaming in pain, laughing._

_Wars. Plague. Famine. Her father's mi —_

"WAKE UP!" Someone was shaking her. A girl wrapped in an expanse of red. _Red._ _Blood. Fire. Death._

Her eyes blurred with tears, and bile rose in her throat. Weiss didn't stop it.

She barely heard the girl's exclamation of sorrow as the darkness finally overtook her.

* * *

_Beep… Beep… Beep…_

Harry gazed guiltily at the girl. He lost control.

As he took out his holly wand to aid her healing process along, Harry reflected.

The Jewel was always silent. Harry just tended to ignore it. The Hood communicated with him perfectly, the frequent use over the years attuned Its magic to Harry's. But the Weapon, well, the Weapon was different. Definitely the most active of the Hallows, the Weapon had such a documented history of bloodshed simply because It craved it. It fed upon Battle. Upon Death. Its power was addictive, and Its influence would amplify the anger of the wielder to feed Its own bloodlust, sometimes indefinitely if the wielder resisted. It _wanted_ to be used.

But using the Weapon, even for mundane things, was a slippery slope. The more one used It, the more frequently the cravings would come, and they were stronger each time. It felt good — unbelievably so — to wield the Weapon. Harry often likened the feeling to the Imperius Curse. That's what made It so dangerous. If left unchecked, It would happily bring down entire civilisations just to get its fix, including the host.

And if that wasn't enough, the wand also targets the subject of the wielder's ire, accentuating their aggression and stubbornness. Harry had been attempting a ritual to tame the Weapon when he was suddenly transported to Remnant. By his best guess, It didn't like what he was attempting, so It sent him to a place without the proper ingredients to perform the ritual.

For a twig with hair inside, It could be quite petty.

It had been thirteen months since Harry lost control as he had down by the fountain, and he intended to find out why.

"Hood?" He felt ripples down his arms. The garment was listening. "What happened?"

Cloth swished around his lower abdomen, sagging off of his skin. Harry wasn't sure if the Hood was actually conscious, or if it felt human emotions, but It definitely had some low-level sentience — enough that he knew It was feeling sorrowful and full of regret. It either didn't know, or It found out too late.

Harry hoped it was the latter, otherwise…

"I lost control," he whispered, "I need to know why."

A new seam opened up in the front, and the Hood fell away from his body, morphing into Its original form and pooling at his feet. The cloth began to grow, enveloping the entire floor of the spacious hard.

Pseudo charades were fun the first time, but after three years of it, Harry very much regretted the Hoods lack of tongue.

"Large?" A swirl, the fluid cloth swishing against the linoleum.

"Big?" Another swirl.

"Tiles? Infirmary? Floor?" At this last guess, the Hood went deadly still.

"Floor?" Not quite.

"Not floor — but close? Ground? Story? Building?" The frustration from both of them was palpable. The Hood shuddered, and Harry could have sworn it was thinking before the entire room was plunged into darkness.

"Everything?" Light broke the surfaces once more as the cloak retreated back to its original size and shape.

Interesting.

All the while Harry had been working to heal the girl, and he finally began to see her breathe settle.

Harry shook out of his musings. _Everything_ was unraveling his control. This required further study. Shaking his head at the workload before him, the young wizard conjured up a bouquet of white roses and tied them with some silver ribbon.

He never saw the bright blue eyes staring at his retreating back.

* * *

"You are quite lucky that Miss Schnee has chosen not to press charges. You are even luckier that Ozpin felt compassion for your situation and allowed you to remain as a student here."

Harry held his head down in shame. He still had yet to understand why he lost control so easily, and because of his failings, a young woman was hurt. "Will she make it to Initiation?" he asked quietly.

The Deputy peered at him suspiciously. "Surprisingly, yes. Ms. Schnee must have a remarkable aura to regenerate so quickly after her ordeal. It's almost unnatural."

His eyes narrowed. Don't give anything away. "Ma'am, we live in a world where people have animalistic traits and monsters roam forestation. You can move objects with your mind on the level of a high-class witch of olde. I think healing quickly is the most normal thing about this entire situation."

"Indeed." She looked down at her scroll, which chirped quietly. "I have to take my leave. I trust you to be well?"

"Yes Professor."

"Good. Oh and one more thing, Mr. Potter." Harry stopped in his tracks, turning to face the intimidating blonde once more.

"Yes?"

"Detention for the next two weeks, and a personal essay about why a Huntsman must, above all things, learn control."

"I'm not a student yet, Professor."

"Four weeks.

"Yes Professor.

* * *

"It's morning! It's morning! It's morning! It's… MORNIIIIING!" Harry turned to look at the hyperactive redhead jumping around a bored looking boy who seemed content to take it all in stride. _Poor man, whipped before he knows it._

He turned his head back towards his food only to meet large silver eyes staring right into his own, uncomfortably close. He jumped back in alarm, knocking his plate up into the face of Ruby Rose as he drew up his slightly purple, smoking hand. When he saw who it was, he balked.

"Jesus Christ, woman, give me a heart attack why don't you!? Merlin alive!" He waved his hand back and forth, dispelling the curse. "Don't sneak up on someone like that." It was at this point that Harry noticed the shine of unshed tears in her eyes, as well as the glaring blonde behind her. She was holding out a bundle of red cloth.

"Fix it."

"I'm sorry?"

"I don't know what you are, or why you're still here after what you did to Weiss, but whichever reason, you _are_ here, so you are _going_ to fix my cloak."

Harry looked at the aforementioned cloak, and as far as he could see, it was undamaged.

"What's wrong with it?"

Ruby's face pulled into an annoyed snarl, as she unrolled the fabric to reveal a rather large stain down the lower half of the cape, crusty and very unappealing to look at. "Weiss threw up on it. Washing it hasn't helped. I've tried every single possible combination of detergents and stain removers and it won't come out. You caused this, so _you fix it_!"

Harry sighed to himself, holding his hand outstretched towards the red cloth. At first, nothing happened. "Hey! I said to do something, not screw around w—" But her complaints soon tapered off as the muck and grime caked on her cloak slowly started to disappear. "Wha—?"

Both girls watched in awe as the teenager ran his hand up and down the length of the entire cape, the stain simply vanishing under his fingers. At closer inspection, it was prevalent that Harry wasn't even touching the textile. It was, in a word, impossible.

"That's a pretty unique semblance you've got there, Short-Stack," Harry grunted in annoyance at the nickname. He was just under 170 centimetres, a perfectly reasonable height for someone who grew up as stunted and malnourished as he had.

"You're going to make height jokes?" Harry asked her with a raised eyebrow. "Interesting choice for someone with the hair of a cavewoman." Her eyes turned red, though the wizard was far too occupied to notice them. "Seriously, what could you be hiding in there? Homeless children? Stray cats?" He waved his hand a final time; a gesture that every observer discarded as a simple habitual speaking quirk.

He rolled his eyes when he was done, inwardly smirking. "Initiation is in fifteen. See you around." As he exited the spacious Mess, he chuckled in mirth at the loud grunts and confused babbling coming from the boisterous woman behind him.

"MUFTARK!" She screamed after him as he twisted on the spot, apparating away.

_Padfoot's Manual to True Marauding, Guideline _("rules are for pansies!")_ Number 24: Always have the last word._

* * *

End of Chapter ONE

A/N: Yes, _Padfoot's Manual to True Marauding_ (which will henceforth be known as _PMTM_ for simplicity) will be a recurring element of the story.

-The UnHoly Smirk


	3. Chapter 3

'_Yup,_' Harry thought. '_Lavender Brown._'

It had been a few years since Harry had seen her, but she hadn't changed much at all. Her skin was a tad darker, she gained a couple centimetres in height and had filled out quite a bit, not that Harry took note. He was a _gentleman_, thank you very much.

The young man was sitting at the edge of a cliff overlooking a beautiful forrest; the ambience and peace giving no indication of the true danger that lied within, shadowed under the canopy. Even so, killer view. His legs swung over the sheer drop, the rush of adrenaline at the utter nothingness he felt under his soles invigorating him. On this world, extreme heights were probably as close as he was ever going to get to flying again. The sun was out, the air was quiet and the breeze was warm and soft; just enough to ruffle his hair a touch, but not nearly fast enough to cause any form of discomfort.

It was a perfect day… well, almost.

"You're alive," she whispered, her eyes narrowed slightly.

"I am." Harry nodded, blinking slowly. He really hadn't gotten enough sleep. "How've you been?" He attempted. Small talk was never his strong suit, even after he left Hogwarts. He wondered if he had time for a nap…

"You died." … Or not.

"Now that's a relative term." Harry reminded her. "According to Trelawney, I've died four hundred fifteen times in the span of two years. I'm quite bad at it, it seems, seeing as I'm still alive."

His chuckles petered off when her face made it clear she was _not_ amused.

"I wanted out." He finally said, refusing to meet her eyes. "I wanted _out_. Out of the Godforsaken 'Wizarding World'. Out of the war, the racism, the classism, the whole bloody _Boy-Who-Lived_ rubbish. I wanted out on being the 'hero' of the day; I was tired of being lauded for a hot second and hated the next fortnight. I just wanted out."

"But you killed Voldemort. _You_ stopped all that." Lavender started, until Harry cut her off.

"And what changed?" He asked pointedly. "No really, think for a hot second. What did Voldemort's death really solve?"

She opened her mouth to answer, but she stopped to think. Before she could gather her thoughts, Harry interjected.

"The Purebloods all got off free. _Damn Dumbledore's fetish for second chances_." The latter sentence was muttered under his breath, though by the girl's affronted look, not nearly quiet enough. "Death Eater children didn't change at all, Snape still terrorised his students under the guise of teaching Potions, the nomajborn are still treated like garbage by the elite and that's not to mention the bullshit way various magical races are screwed over almost daily.

"So I ask you, Ms. Lavender Brown: _what changed_?"

"How would you even know?" Lavender interrupted bitterly. "You left."

Harry just rolled his eyes, not seeing her face twist in anger.

"You actually think I wasn't keeping tabs on what was happening during my little holiday? The Wizarding World is not capable of change. It never was, it never will be—"

_SMACK_! Harry saw spots dance in his field of vision as his brain caught up with the throbbing pain across his cheek, his hand rose up to it in disbelief. _She slapped him_. And she was a lot stronger than she looked, if the burning sensation on his face was any indicator.

Slowly, Harry turned back to look into her eyes, and quietly quelled his reaction to her shining eyes. They were glowing gold. '_No,_' Harry corrected, '_not gold, _amber.'

Werewolf. Harry felt pity start to swell in his stomach, but he quickly pushed it back down. She had no right to lay a hand on him because of her misplaced resentment. It wasn't his job to protect her.

"So this is personal, is it?" Harry asked, ignoring her glare. "I'm sorry that you were bitten, but it's not my job to intervene on behalf of all of Magical Britain. And it's definitely not my job to lead the charge for werewolf rights. Offing a dark lord isn't worth anything in a government. I wasn't qualified to do anything."

"You could have worked with the Aurors." She bit back, poking him _hard_ in the chest. "You could have been a part of the DMLE! You would have been the figurehead the government needed to change! You're a leader. You. Just. Refused. To _lead_!"

"AND HAS IT EVER CROSSED YOUR MIND THAT I DON'T WANT TO LEAD!?" Harry shouted. He had finally had enough. He gripped her wrist from its poking position, finally pulling his eyes away from the serene scene before him.

"HAS IT EVER EVEN OCCURRED TO YOUR WATER-LOGGED BRAIN THAT I NEVER WANTED TO BE A LEADER!? THAT — NOT ONCE — DID I ASK TO BE SOME FIGUREHEAD THAT PEOPLE LOOK UP TO!?" His hand wrapped around her forearm started to smoke slightly, acrid, charcoal-black fumes rising from their joining. Her face was stricken, but Harry didn't care.

"I DIDN'T WANT TO BE A CELEBRITY! I HATED IT ALL! THE FAME, THE CONSTANT ATTENTION, THE RAMPANT BULLSHIT FROM THE PAPERS! EVERYONE SEEMS TO FORGET THAT I'M ONLY FAMOUS BECAUSE MY PARENTS DIED IN MY PLACE! THEY'RE ALL PERFECTLY CONTENT TO BE MERRY AND JOYOUS EVERY HALLOWE'EN, MARKING THE YEARS SINCE THE FIRST END OF VOLDEMORT!

"WHY THE EVER-LOVING _FUCK_ WOULD I EVER WANT TO LEAD YOUR PEOPLE!?" He took a deep, shaky breath. "I didn't refuse to _lead them_," his voice rasped from overuse. "I refused to be their _fall guy_."

Harry let go of her wrist, the smoke dissipating, and she immediately backed up away form the cliff side. Lavender was almost hyperventilating, rapidly pumping her hand, tenderly tracing her slightly greyed skin and she stood back up, her legs buckling under her weight.

She was trembling. "What happened to you, Harry?" At this point, a crowd has formed around their little 'conversation,' the teenage warriors, muttering amongst themselves rather than actually performing an action. Teenager are always the same, regardless of what world he was on.

Harry started to walk back to the school proper, before he realised that while his feet were moving, he wasn't actually moving at all. In fact, his feet weren't even touching the ground at all. "Please let me go, Ms. Goodwitch. I wish to get packed before the first Bullhead leaves."

"And why would you do that, Mr. Mithryl?" Ozpin asked, curiously.

"Well I'm obviously unfit to join a school for heroes, and I'd rather not go through the whole process of my expulsion. May as well leave before I start."

"No one ever pretended that Beacon was safe, Mr. Potter." Goodwitch turned in shock to glare holes into Ozpin's skull amongst another outbreak of murmurs. "But please refrain from harming any more students."

"Ozpin, you can't possibly expect me to just—"

The silver-haired man turned to stare at her, and she froze. They had a furious, if silent, argument before they finally reached a compromise. "Six weeks, Mr. Mithryl. _Six_. If I have to raise that number again, you will be suspended and held back another year, _do you understand? _You will also undergo Anger Management training with Doctor Oobleck until he considers you fit for release. Consider yourself on probation." And with that, Goodwitch threw her riding crop out towards the open sky, launching Harry down towards the forrest.

'_Never mind the cliffs_,' Harry thought to himself, correcting his earlier thought. '_This is as close to flying as I'll ever get._'

The whistle of air rushing by his ears would have been terrifying to the common man. To Harry, formally the Youngest Starting Seeker in a century, it was as familiar as it was exhilarating. The skies would always be where he found his home. His heart pounding at his ears, the biting cold of higher altitudes, the complete and total freedom he felt when flying. Nothing would ever compare, magical nor mundane.

Time seemed to stop when he reached the apex of his climb. He closed his eyes and basked in the high sun's rays, finding comfort in the total emptiness that surrounded him on all sides. The wind rushing by perfect to drown out his darker thoughts. This was where he belonged, weightless, away from it all. Free.

When his mass finally caught up with him, he started to fall, rapidly accelerating downwards toward the littering of trees that blanketed the forrest proper.

Harry realised that he didn't have his broom, and thus didn't really have a way of slowing his descent. Almost immediately after the thought reached his mind, before panic could set in on his sleep deprived mind, the Hood responded to his need.

A seam formed at the front, splitting open and stretching out into an archaic caped cloak. The corners of the cape curled back abnormally and wrapped around Harry's calves, catching air and acting similarly to a parachute behind his rapidly falling form, slowing him considerably to a gentle descent.

Essentially floating now, Harry touched down on the forest floor with little fanfare. "Cloak, please." He said under his breath.

The Hood started to shiver, waving back and forth slightly as a silvery colour flowed from the top, trickling down the cape and shimmering as light moved over its surface like water. "Thanks." Harry grabbed the collar, threw the hood up and vanished.

* * *

Xanadu Drake II (_"Ehks is fine"_ ) always felt like he was cheating.

Why wouldn't he? He was always upset when his brother paused a game during a match between them to think out his next moves, or to look up when his moves were. He called that cheating, and his semblance basically gave him the ability to do the same thing.

Hyper-cognition. Accelerated Perception, whatever. The ability to speed up his train of thought to unnatural lengths, to the point that, when he focused hard enough, he felt like he was pausing the entire world around him to give himself breathing room in combat. It wasn't like he could turn it off entirely either. At the minimum, his brain ran twice as fast as the average Huntsman, and that was already faster than most.

"_If fairness matters in a fight to you, you are either stupid or suicidal. Which is it _boy?" His dad would tell him when his reluctance came to light. Granted his dad was a bastard and a murderer, so who cared what he had to say?

Brothers.

The Drake clan was one of the most feared bandit clans in the sands of Vacuo, known for their brutal tactics and ruthless practices. Children, women, laymen, all were equal under the scrutiny of the Dragon Tribe, and all were slaughtering indiscriminately. Their weapon of choice: fire.

Even with the usage of Dust, most of the backwater settlements still built their homes with wood, cloth and other easily burned material.

Ehks's great grandfather, Xanadu I, invented a special Dust mixture that burned brighter, longer and hotter than any configuration before it. He appropriately named it the "_Dragon's Breath_", crafting highly efficient incendiary grenades…

Which he then promptly used to torch hundreds of villages.

Absolutely no love was lost between Ehks and his tribe. They could all go suck a Goliath off, for all he cared. Bastards.

And there was the issue of his weapon of choice.

"_A sniper rifle is a cowards weapon,_" his father would scoff at him, "_Only suited for those far too weak to face a man head on. No son of mine will hide in the trees like some guerilla._"

Right, because setting fire to sleeping families was so honourable.

"_Wonder what my partner will be like?_" He thought to himself, "_I would hate to have to carry anyone._" At that thought, he chuckled to himself. The notion that he, a _sniper,_ would be capable of _carrying_ any team was ludicrous at best. They'd either have to be blind or insane.

Finally reaching the peak of his climb, Ehks rolled his eyes.

It's an unfortunate side effect of a brain that works faster that everyone else's; everything takes _forever_.

By the time he was halfway to the ground, he had already thought of and ruled out twenty-six different possible landing strategies, probably settling on one before the others even started to consider. Now it was a waiting game. Timing for the perfect moment to execute his plan…

Still waiting…

That was another thing about accelerated perception.

Everything was _boring_.

* * *

If there was one thing Harry learned from Dumbledore, it was how invisibility can often give one tunnel vision if he wasn't cautious.

Moving north through the forest as quickly as he could, taking care to be mindful of his surroundings, Harry moved past Grimm and students alike, never breaking stride. Shadows cast from the canopy above tugged and swirled around him as he ran past, his feet blurring in and out of existence. _PMTM, Suggestion _("rules are for the weak") _Number 7: The best fight is the fight you avoid. Don't get caught._ Granted he was talking about fights with "_those good-for-nothing slimy Snakes_," but Harry thought it applied here.

The point of the exercise was to grab a relic and a partner. However he did that should be inconsequential, so long as he didn't hurt any students.

"_Well, any _more_ students_," he thought with an uneasy grimace. He really needed to do something about that. He internally cringed at the thought of what Hermione would have had to say about his behaviour lately.

Merlin he was exhausted.

The Hood had yet to elaborate when it claimed that the _everything_ was responsible for his fraying emotions, and by experience Harry knew that pushing for an answer would get him nowhere. Even still, he basically lost an entire night of sleep worried that _something _was affecting him so drastically. What if his magic was in danger? Stupid, frustrating strips of cloth.

What could "_Everything_" mean? Was it a metaphor? Did it mean the people of Remnant? The entire world? Literally every molecule in the universe? _Everything_ was, purely by definition, an umbrella term. So far, Harry's best guess what that the Hood wasn't being literal. The Hallows tended to enjoy being symbolic. Whether by nature or choice, Harry never knew.

Bloody artefacts.

"_And those must be the relics_," Harry mused, spotting the glimmer of gold at the base of a large mountain, various structures erected in a haphazard circle in an approximation of Stonehenge. Displayed individually on small pillars were black and gold chess pieces. Every relic was still there, meaning that Harry was the first one to arrive. It made sense, the others probably met their partners and got aquatinted.

Harry sat down with his back against the white bishop's display. He figured that he might as well wait to see if anyone else turns up partnerless. Leaning his head against the warm stone, he figured it was a probably a bad idea to sleep in the middle of a forest famous for being filled with man-eating demons.

On the other hand, he was tired, and a wizard, so normal rules rarely applied to him. Shrugging the Hood from his back, still in its Cloak form, he draped it over himself, carefully keeping his face concealed and casting the Disillusionment charm and Notice-Me-Not for good measure. No one should bother him, Grimm or otherwise.

"_Just a quick nap_," he reminded himself, yawning. "_At most, a half hour_." His eyes were began to droop. He couldn't sleep longer than that, or he'd fail the Initiation.

"_It's just… a quick…_"

Harry's eyes snapped open.

Darkness.

"_What the—_" The sky, which was a bright, soft blue just a second ago was now an eerie indigo, stars blinking here and there. A large, shattered moon hung high in the sky, casting soft light down onto the ruins.

His eyes blinked rapidly, adjusting to the dark, as the blurry shapes around him pulled back into focus. He turned around in a circle to observe his surroundings, before cursing out loud at something he saw right away.

Or rather, something he _didn't_ see.

All the relics were gone.

* * *

End of Chapter THREE

A/N: Don't kill me… I have a plan I promise.


	4. Chapter 4

_Beep Beep_. Harry brushed his Scroll against the electronic lock guarding his room. It was early morning by now, as Harry learned that going back up the cliffs was much more arduous and tasking than the descent down. By the time he reached the launch point, his round spectacles were glowing with the glow of the rising sun, and the quiet ambience of dawn permeated through the fading night. Dew clung to every surface, scattering the morning rays and causing every blade of grass to sparkle. If Harry weren't so miserable it might have been beautiful to behold.

The door opened into an empty room, stripped totally bare. "Shit."

His scroll vibrated in his hand. With a quick glance down Harry confirmed that the message was from Ozpin. With a quiet sigh, he tapped on the notification.

"_Mr. Mithryl, please make your way up to my office. I have your belongings._"

Either the Headmaster received notice when Harry opened the door, or he was watching him somehow. Just in case it was the latter, Harry made sure to flip the bird in every direction, before he trudged up to Ozpin's lift.

Ozpin's office was the highest room in the Academy, atop the tallest central tower. That meant very little to Harry, other than extended the time it took for the damn cabin to make it back towards the bottom. After a full two minutes of waiting, Harry decided he had enough.

After a brief moment of concentration, he turned on his heel and vanished with a sharp crack, reappearing in front of a very startled Ozpin, who had fallen out of his grand chair.

"Hello Headmaster," Harry greeted, smirking. "You called?"

The battle-hardened warrior had to take a moment to collect himself, before smirking right back. "Well, that was quite a show, Mr. Mithryl." Ozpin picked up his cane and stood back up. "A less experienced huntsman may assume that teleportation is your semblance, but I believe I saw that during your encounter with Ms. Brown."

Harry rolled his eyes at the attempt to fish for information. "Was there a question there, Headmaster?"

"Just an old man thinking out loud."

Ozpin stared into his eyes, and Harry felt distinctly uncomfortable but felt no attempt at Legilimency. Harry chastised his paranoia. What was he thinking? Sure Ozpin was a powerhouse, but he was a nomaj. He couldn't perform magic. Regardless, Harry broke eye contact first. It was getting a bit creepy.

"Right," Harry broke the uncomfortable silence. "My stuff?"

"Of course, Mr. Mithryl. I have it here." He indicated a box that Harry had just noticed. Was that really there the whole time? "I will have the details of your room sent to your scroll. You will be bunking with another team, but it should suit your purposes all the same—"

"Hold on!" Harry cut in. "My room?"

"Yes, Mr, Mithryl, your room. The place in which you sleep and study, should you choose. Luckily, we have a three-person team this year. It happens. The likeliness of perfectly even numbers to separate into four-person teams is not very high, and we often have a few stragglers."

"I know what a room is, sir, I just don't understand why I have one. I didn't complete Initiation. Aren't I kicked out?"

Ozpin raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Mithryl, allow me to let you in on a bit of a secret. Initiation is nothing more than a way we assign teams. It does not determine whether or not one is able to actually attend our school. Unless a prospect dies, of course." At that final remark, the man's eyes seemed to take on a haunted look. He seemed to snap out of it and continued. "Tell me, do you wish to leave?"

Harry shook his head. He had nowhere to go, and no money to pay for room and board.

"Then that settles it. You will not be on a team, at least at first. Instead, you will act in somewhat of a freelance position. You will fill in wherever you are needed, so more often than not, you will carry out deeds with those you dorm with. You may choose to join the three-person team later down the line. Is that acceptable to you?"

Harry nodded. It was better than he was expecting.

"Very well." Ozpin nodded. "You may go to bed now. Feel free to leave the way you came. No need to wait."

Harry nodded again, completely lost for words. Silently, he stepped back a bit and prepared to apparate out, only for Ozpin to make one final request.

"Do be sure to apologise to Ms. Goodwitch, when you can," Ozpin called out, his face awash with amusement. "She was quite worried when you vanished from our detection."

Harry's eyes went wide, as he imagined the reaction of the Deputy. '_Oh fuck.._'

_CRACK!_

* * *

Harry's fist froze in front of the door.

'_It's five-thirty in the morning._' Harry scolded his moment of stupidity. '_I'm not keen to piss off my new flatmates already by knocking._'

Instead, he touched scroll to the door, wincing at the quiet chirp of recognition and motor on the electric lock. He grabbed the handle and pushed the door ajar quickly, just enough to let himself in, and fast enough that any creak was overcome immediately.

Luckily, it didn't seem like anyone was awake yet.

Harry winced at every stressed creak that resonated from the floor under him. '_Shouldn't the carpet quell the more extreme sounds?_' He cringed internally at a particular loud squeak.

He glared down at the lush carpeting, trying to convey to the floorboards below how unhappy he was with them. He resisted the urge to growl and shush the inanimate objects.

The wizard rolled his eyes at his internal silliness and looked back up when he froze. Just for a second, he could have sworn that he saw a flash of gold. As the Youngest Hogwarts Seeker in a Century, Harry had rather keen reflexes for that sort of thing. But it was so brief… even _he_ doubted that it wasn't the remnant of the morning sun still in his eyes.

Shaking his head, he hopped into the only free bed, seizing up at the cacophony of noise from the stretching springs in his mattress.

_Oops._

Thanks to his impromptu slumber, he wasn't all the tired, but he knew from experience he would be if he didn't get some shut-eye. Getting as comfortable as he could while making as little sound as possible, he closed his eyes and did his best to think relaxing thoughts.

As he drifted off, he didn't notice the two glowing irises staring a hole into his back.

* * *

"… In the end, the Beowulf was no match for my sheered tenacity, and I returned to my village with the beast in captivity and my head held high — celebrated as a _hero_."

Harry rolled his eyes. This braggart wasn't doing very much to convince him that he was anything more than just talk. In fact, he simply succeeded in reminding the wizard of another teacher he had years ago.

"The moral of this story? A true Huntsman must be honourable. A true Huntsman must be dependable. A true Huntsman must be strategic, well-educated, and wise. So, who among you believes themselves to be the embodiment of these traits?"

'_Well, this could be interesting…_' Harry peered around the room, wondering who indeed thought so highly of themselves, enough so that they would risk making the first proverbial move. Such arrogance tended to be common amongst those that would later antagonise him, so marking possible idiots early was probably a good idea.

No one spoke up. That was odd. Surely _someone_ wanted to show off.

Instinctually, Harry's eyes were drawn towards the white-haired girl he "encountered" earlier only to find that she was staring right back at him, tension evident in her face and posture. The second their eyes met, she averted her gaze down towards the desk and shrank in on herself.

Harry winced at the total switch in her attitude. He had never been comfortable with people being _scared _of him. It made him feel far too much like Voldemort, reminding him just how alike he and his late Nemesis were. Even if she wasn't exactly pleasant when they first met, he definitely escalated the situation. That fight was _his fault_, her resulting injuries _his fault_. If anything, _she_ should have been wary of _him_.

Harry glanced back at the Professor who, by his face, definitely witnessed the brief exchange. He must have also been expecting Weiss to volunteer. He turned towards Harry, having finally figured out where she must have been staring at. His face was solemn. Harry knew that the rotund man had recognised him.

"How about you Mr. Mithryl?"

Every fibre in Harry's being told him that it was not a request.

"Of course, sir."

He hopped over the barrier into the arena below, doing his best to ignore every single eye in the room trained on him.

"Where is your weapon, Mr. Mithryl?" Professor Port called out from next to the large box dominating centre stage, the padlocked door rattling ominously.

"I don't currently have one, sir," Harry told him. "I prefer to use my hands."

Port peered at him curiously. "Are you sure, young man?"

"Yes sir," Harry confirmed, squaring his shoulders and holding his hands up. He rolled his eyes at the whispers from above.

_"__He's a hand-to-hand fighter?"_

_"__I heard that he was a stealth operative."_

_"— __thinks he's so tough. That's not even a real ready stance."_

Either Earth or Remnant, teenagers remain the same.

"Ready?"

Harry nodded.

"Well then let's see what you make of _this!_" And with that, Port slashed at the cage's lock, breaking it off.

_BANG!_ The door burst open as a hairy monster from Hell charged out into the open.

A coarse imitation of fur down its back, plates of bone scaling parallel across its flank. A white mask adorned the snout, with glowing red eyes and tribal markings shining from every surface. Wicked tusks curved out from the mouth with smaller horns jutting from the nose.

_'__It's a killer pig. This world has killer pigs.'_

Its eyes flashed in a mad rage, almost as if the beast somehow heard Harry's less than flattering thoughts. It pawed the ground like a bull, before running at him. Harry sighed, stepping out of the way. The creature bowled passed him, skidding to a halt a good five metres away from him. It shook its head, seemingly confused.

_'__Correction. Killer _bull _pigs.'_

Finally realising that Harry was, in fact, not gorged on his tusks and was behind him, the pig chuffed at him. It bound into the air, bouncing on the tile and tucking into an immobile roll, gaining speed until it was little more than a black and red blur. Harry was vaguely reminded of that blue character his cousin would often play as when they were small. The thought made him smile for simpler times, when his biggest problems were running from his rather large cousin and avoiding his easily angered uncle.

Whatever force was keeping it in place must have finally been overcome because the pig (Harry was pretty sure it was called a _Boarbatusk_) came speeding towards him.

"Professor?" Harry asked out loud, while sidestepping the furry wheel. "Do you need the beast alive?"

Port chuckled to himself. "Not at all, my boy. Feel free to kill the beast, that is, _if you can!_ Haha!"

That certainly made things easier.

Glancing back at the _Boarbatusk_ to confirm that, yes, it was preparing to charge again, Harry stood right in its path. It came barreling towards him once more.

_'__Persistent, isn't it?' _Harry thought to himself, before holding out his hand with little fanfare.

_"__Move Harry!"_ That must have been Ruby. Harry disregarded her words. After all, it wasn't like he was in any danger.

"What the _fuck?_" Ah, it seemed as if someone in the crowd finally noticed his opponent.

The _Boarbatusk_ was frozen in place. Well, its head was. Its lower half was still frantically trying to charge at him, the hooves sliding and scraping uselessly against the floor. It wasn't going anywhere any time soon. "Last chance professor," Harry intoned. "Dead or alive?"

"Your task is to kill the beast, Mr. Mithryl. That hasn't changed." Port didn't sound excited anymore.

Harry shrugged as if to say 'if you wish'. Raising his hand slightly, the monster started to follow. Its legs kicking worthlessly, suspended from the head, it started to screech and grunt in pain. Harry's eyes flickered into an unholy pure black, his face completely devoid of emotion, as he twisted his wrist around. With a sickening _crunch_, the _Boarbatusk's_ head turned a full one-eighty.

There was a pregnant silence.

And then everything was _wonderful._

All of Harry's problems seemed to disappear, the fatigue and tension _melting_ from his musculature. He felt a laugh of delight start to bubble in his core, which he squashed down. No need to convince the whole school he was full stop insane just yet.

Harry forced his magic to let go of the creature, and it slumped down back onto the ground with a dull _thud_. Restraining his joy into a simple pleasant smile, he turned back to the Professor's slightly ashen face.

_That. Was. Brilliant._

Harry only ever felt something _close_ to that feeling when he was in the air, but even _flying_ seemed to pale in comparison to the rush he felt killing his first Grimm.

The elation humming in his bones left his skin crying and yearning for such a feeling again, while the blood pounding in his ears _sang_.

_He needed more._

Well, that was a given.

* * *

"Ya' know 'im, right pardner?"

Lavender looked up from her history book to her teammate, Jessica-Roux Macintosh.

Roux was rather tall, with slightly broader shoulders and thick wrists hinting at many hours of hard labour. She wore a large western hat with her shoulder-length, dark auburn hair chaotically poking out under the brim, and even in Beacon's clashing uniform, she looked breathtaking with her tan skin, strong jaw and aura of confidence. Everything about her screamed "strong, independent woman."

Lavender huffed in annoyance at her total lack of morning prep-time save a ten-minute shower. It was quite unfair.

Plus, she was quite _done_ with people asking her about _him_.

"I know _whom_, Roux?" She asked, peering intently at the offending cowgirl with one eye.

_"__Mithryl!"_

The eye twitched.

Roux didn't even flinch.

"Yes, I _knew_ Harry, but he's quite different than he was while we were at combat school." Substituting relevant words for more Remnant-friendly alternatives had become something of an automatic process by this point. "He's changed."

"Ya' mean he ain't one to normally hurt cha?" She asked.

It took Lavender a moment to translate Roux's rather… _unique_… dialect. "Right. Harry used to be so sweet. I don't know what happened to him to make him so…" she trailed off.

_"__Dangerous?" _Roux suggested.

"I was going to say angry and temperamental, but yeah."

"Well ya' mentioned that Harry was somethin' of a leader?"

Lavender chuckled bitterly. _Harry_ had been the one to inform basically the entire first year hopefuls about his previous status.

"We lived in a rather large frontier town. Three years ago, these _bandits_ showed up one day to wreak havoc and turn our home into another base for their tribe and were very nearly successful, thanks to a few _sympathisers_ that were top dogs in our government. They agreed with the bandit tribe's racist philosophy, and did their best to cripple our people's ability to fight them off."

Roux gasped in surprise. "_Seriously?_ How in the ever-lovin' _hell_ were people like _that_ in charge of a damn _government?_"

Lavender scoffed. "How else? _Lien._ They were so good at bribing their way to the top that after it was all over with they claimed that they'd been _brainwashed _to avoid persecution, lining every pocket necessary to _'show how sorry they were'_ for every disgusting, irredeemable act they committed!" Lavender was visibly shaking in anger.

"What happen' to 'em?"

Lavender snarled in repressed rage. _"Nothing!"_

The taller girl blinked. "Say what now?"

_"__They. Got. Off." _Lavender's teeth were grinding together.

Roux was appalled and outraged. "_HOW?!"_

"Simple. The primary witness went missing, presumed dead. It's hard to disprove the "brainwashing defence" when so many high class _valued members of society_ used the same one. Without a witness to testify on how the bigots were _free-thinking _during their atrocities, they got off scot-free."

"What happened to th' witness?"

"He ran away like a little _bitch_ because his silver spoon got a bit dirty. _'Oh whoah is me! I'm too famous! Life is so terrible for poor little me!'_ Dust-damned baby."

"I feel like I'm missin' some vital bidda intel here, Lavvy."

Lavender rolled her eyes at the childish nickname, calmed down some by her partner's happy-go-lucky attitude. "The witness was Harry. He was able to defeat their _Leader_, and interacted with them all the most. He was the warrior hero who fought them off, and his word would have been enough to ensure the elitist pricks got what they deserved. Instead, he walked, so _they_ did as well."

Roux was silent for a bit, while Lavender went back to trying to study for Oobleck's upcoming quiz.

"Ya' said this all went down three years ago?"

Lavender absentmindedly nodded.

"So ya'll woulda been fourteen?"

Lavender nodded again, not sure where Roux was going with this.

"How do y'all expect a fourteen-year ol' kid to do _anythin'?_" She asked derisively.

Blonde hair whipping up as Lavender turned to stare in shock and anger at her partner. Could she really not see?

"His age shouldn't have mattered! He was a hero! He killed You-Know-Who!"

"He killed 'I-know-_what now?_' Regardless, it sounds ta' me like he'd done way past his fair share already? At fourteen years old! _Fourteen! _Course his age matters! He _killed_ another _person_ at _fourteen years old!_ No one should _ever_ have to take a life — _ever _— and he was forced to do it at _fourteen? _And then y'all have the _gall_ ta' ask morra him? _What's wrong with y'all?_"

She huffed in passion, her disappointment evident in her face as she turned around and left.

Lavender slumped down into her book, screaming into the pages.

She didn't understand.

Lavender caught a look at herself in the mirror, her eyes flashing amber in anger.

And she never will.

* * *

Harry didn't bother to quell his laughter as he carved a path through the highest concentration of Grimm he could find. It wasn't like there was anyone around to consider him completely unhinged. High concentrations of telekinetic energy gathered at the ends of his fingertips, casting a purple glow into the rapidly darkening ambience as Harry plunged them into the chest of a pouncing _Beowolf_. With a _wrench_ he tore his hand free, only to crush the skull of an incoming _Ursa_. Grimm didn't have organs or blood, but they had _something_ inside of them, and a viscous black ichor flew into the air, raining back down in thick globules staining Harry's blazer and tie.

In hindsight, he probably should have changed out of his uniform _before_ entering the Grimm infested forest.

The other hand was casting away, shooting Cutters and _Reductos_ at anything at moved, streaks of orange and pink lights flashing into existence and flying across the clearing in milliseconds. Legs were covered in sheets of ice, hands were transfigured into paper, magic of all shapes and sized were flying from him with a ferocity only found in The Blood Wars.

By this point, Harry had achieved a near constant high from every new Grimm so helpfully replacing the ones he had just slaughtered. He would let out a raucous cheer as he ripped off a monster's arm and beat another to submission with it. The grass below had long since been trampled down into mulch, the ichor seeping into the dirt and nutrients below the surface. Surrounding plant-life was withering away as more and more Grimm fell and bled into the earth, but Harry didn't care.

A nigh constant roar or Grimm, war and his own laughter dulled in his ears, fully accustomed to the noise, embracing it as he fell back into the fight with renewed vigour. Slash. Grab. Claw. Swipe. Block. Burst. Cast. Swipe. Dodge. Cast.

Every Grimm he put down brought the same feeling of joy flowing throughout his entire body. It was addictive. It was comfortable. If he could, he would chase it forever.

A child soldier is only ever truly home when he runs back into battle.

_Break. Tear. Slice. Rip. Jump. Cast. Lift. Tear. Break._

He let out a shout of victory as he directed all his energy at a single charging _Boarbatusk_, almost dancing from the adrenaline when its head exploded, raining gore down onto the already mutilated ground.

The body anticlimactically tipped over, already dissolving into smoke.

The roar was gone, leaving a dull ringing bouncing around Harry's head. All that remained from the massacre were the puddles of ichor pooling on the floor and the air, stinking of sweat and rot. Harry sank to the ground, his knees sinking deep into the tar-soaked mud. _Something _rolled out of his fingers, landing with a _splat _onto the drenched earth. Harry looked down in surprise. Even covered in bits of gore and dyed a dark purple, Harry would always recognise those distinctive knots.

_'__When did I pull _that_ out?' _He asked himself. He had no recollection of taking out _Death's Weapon_. In fact, he specifically remembered stowing it away hours before he even left Beacon.

So how the hell did it just _appear_ in his hand like it never left? Not once in any legend did Harry hear even a whisper about the Weapon appearing back in the hand of the user.

Though Harry did recall one thing the Ollivander had said to him when presented with the Wand of Destiny.

_"__The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter. That has always been evident to those who study wandlore. A particularly powerful wand like this one? Well, I would have to assume that its ability to _choose_ is just as amplified. However, with a wand such as this, which has had multiple partners throughout history, I'd imagine this wand genuinely _wishes_ to be used. For what, I could only guess."_

_"__Could you speculate?" Harry asked as politely as he could. Ollivander's was always a rather creepy shop._

_"__Why, _death_, one would assume. This wand chooses a wielder that will best deliver it _death_."_

* * *

End of Chapter FOUR

AN: So we meet Roux, who is based on one of my favourite video game characters. A few hints into what the Hallows are doing and a little more on what the AU of Harry's Earth is. P.S. this is the longest chapter yet!


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Quick side note reminder: Harry's official name is Harley.

EDIT: I'm an idiot. It's Harley, not Harvey. F*** me... Been replaced

* * *

Roux was on a mission: she was going to talk to Harley Mithryl.

She wasn't dim, she knew that such a task would be very difficult to actually pull off, but her Momma always told her that she was "more stubborn than a box 'a nails gettin' dragged by a mule." Harley was steadfast refusing to even acknowledge anyone brave enough to just walk over to him and strike up a conversation. He would just ignore them! Flat-out!

Honestly, who does that?

But on the other hand, if even half of what Lavender said about his past is true, then Roux really couldn't blame him. Hell, she'd probably be the same way, worse, even. Maybe Roux really shouldn't be judging his rather rude attitude, but rather praising his restraint.

Roux shook her head to halt her wandering thoughts. She really needed to talk to him. But that wasn't even the biggest problem with trying.

First, she had to find him.

Harley Mithryl seemed to have an unwavering ability to simply vanish after class. He'd briefly step out of sight—around a corner, past a pillar or even behind Professor Port— and just disappear. At first, Roux simply waited for him to come back to their room before bed, but she always drifted off before he finally showed up, and every morning he was gone again. If It wasn't for the moving clothes around his slept-in bed, she would doubt he even ever spent time there. Occasionally he would show his face during meals, always looking like he ran a marathon through a mud pit but grinning to himself like a loon. It tended to be enough to deter anyone else from trying to approach him, so he sat alone while he devoured whatever was in front of him.

Well, it wasn't like he had any company to disgust with his table manners. Until her, of course.

Yes, Roux determined that it was then that she needed to make her move. No one else would be around, he would be too preoccupied to avoid her, it was perfect. All she had to do was wait.

Any second now…

There he was!

Harry internally sighed as the wooden table creaked under the sudden weight of a new body sitting across from him. He lowered his fork and paused in his quest to refuel before reentering the Emerald Forest.

'Just ignore it,' he told himself, waiting for the presence to get bored or offended enough at his lack of speech to leave him to eat in peace. Killing Grimm for the better part of a Saturday morning always worked up an appetite.

The person didn't leave.

Rolling his eyes at their persistence, Harry brought the morsel back up to his mouth and continued eating. Maybe if he simply carried on, they would get the hint.

Thirty seconds passed in silence, save for the sound of chewing and utensils scraping against dinnerware. Harry continued to clear his plate, flecks of tomato sauce plopping onto his lap. His pants would be totally ruined in about an hour, so he didn't bother cleaning it up.

Two minutes went by, still without either occupant uttering a word. At this point, Harry could admit he was impressed with her resolve. Most people couldn't stand awkward silence, and would immediately strive to either break the lull in conversation or leave. Curious, he finally glanced up from his half-eaten mountain of spaghetti.

Harry immediately recognised his roommate. Jessica… something. McCready? McCallister? MacKenzie? He especially recognised the large cowgirl style hat he always saw on her nightstand. It was definitely her.

And she was eating.

She was eating. Just… eating her food: a slightly smaller mountain of pasta than his. Like she simply happened to sit down across from him as if the rest of the seats were full, and in no way did she intend to sit there.

She wasn't waiting for him to finish, nor was she impatiently tapping her foot. She wasn't crossing her arms and glaring. She was just enjoying a meal. Harry almost laughed out loud.

Well, that was fine with him. So long as she wasn't bothering him, she could sit and eat wherever she liked. Maybe she was like him and simply wanted to avoid all the bustle of the populous. Harry wasn't about to say she was wrong for doing so.

They ate in silence, though Harry felt like it wasn't nearly as awkward as it should have been.

Step One: Success!

Roux did a little jig at having successfully gotten further in her quest to talk to Harley than anyone else before her. She sat down across from him, in perfect talking distance, and didn't get sent away. She could almost feel the moment that Harley accepted her presence.

It was as if the wooden bench under her softened suddenly, whereas before she felt like she was sitting atop rough steel.

Roux was many things, but impatient she was not. She was in for the long haul, ready to enact every step in her six-part scheme to start a conversation with the most elusive conversationalist in the academy. She wasn't going to force the issue. Harley was going to want to talk to her. And when that moment came, she would strike; learning directly from the source the secrets to the mystery of Harley Mithryl.

She started to lay the foundation for him. She was someone who wouldn't pry. She wouldn't poke at him like some animal at the petting zoo or gawk like he was some exhibit at a museum. Instead, she would provide a silent presence that he could rely on and confide in if he wished. She would fixate herself a part of his daily routine, simply by providing evidence that she would remain there, without any other motive.

Granted, she definitely had an ulterior motive, but Harley didn't know that.

Now it was only a matter of time until she could commence onto Step Two.

* * *

Light.

Harry squinted under the near-harsh golden glow that seemed to originate from the very air itself, a shocking contrast to the darkness of the Department of Mysteries.

Where was he? Where was Sirius? Oh shit.

The last thing he could remember was studying the Hallows. He had arranged them according to their symbol as best he could, with the Hood laid flat upon the masonry, the Jewel placed in the centre and the Weapon balanced on top, its handle resting on the dark surface of the sharp stone. In all of his experimentation with the Hallows, he found that that particular setup seemed the most responsive to detective magic.

He had been preparing a pseudo-ritual to possible uncover some of the Hallows' secrets and concluded that the Veil's Chamber within the darkest corner of the Ministry of Magic would be the prime location for turning out results. After all, where else would he perform a Death based ritual if not the single most necro-attuned room in the country?

Of course, his godfather insisted on coming along.

It had been his fourth attempt at such a ritual, acting upon barest hope that the location of the ceremony would change anything in the slightest.

His hunch must have been correct. He finally got a result.

"Harry James."An unseen voice boomed, reverberating through every bone is Harry's body. His head swivelled around looking for the source before he realised that, in the same vein as the light, the voice came from everywhere. "Four times now, you have created a beacon to bridge the Expanse, yet not once have you used it. What is it you are seeking?"

Harry's mouth was very dry. He coughed nervously, licking his lips. "I'm sorry, what? Expanse? Beacons? I'm not sure what you mean. I collected the three Deathly Hallows about two years ago. Besides a better connection with all three, nothing changed. I seek knowledge. I wish to know why I was chosen. The Hallows have been—well speaking isn't exactly accurate—communicating with me. They keep telling me that I've been chosen for something, but they won't tell me what!"

Green eyes narrowed. "Was it you? Are you the one who chose me?"

"No, I am not. That would be the beacon's creator. I sensed that you were closer to a Doorway to the Expanse than you had ever been, so it wasn't a hindrance upon Myself to simply reach through and pull you in."

"What do you want from me? Where am I? Who are you?" Harry had so many questions, and they seemed to be spilling out from him. His palms began to perspire.

Harry's eyes widened as the blinding light suddenly subsided, darkening down into a sinister purple and boiling black, the general ambiance making Harry distinctly uncomfortable. The shadows coalesced into a throne, a very large faceless humanoid crouching on the seat, its posture almost apelike. Wicked grooved horns curled out from his forehead, and its skin a dark violet. It was chuckling, its movements jerky and pained.

"In order of recency: I am the Brother of Darkness, you are in the Expanse Between Realms, and I wish to make you a deal."

Harry's eyes shot open, his breath haggard as he forced his body to calm down.

'Oh yeah,' he sighed audibly. 'That.'

He hadn't forgotten, much as he wished to.

Feeling his hands throb, Harry peeked at his tightly clenched fists. He had to force himself to relax, only to wince at the sharp friction, trying his best to keep the red beads staining his fingers from dripping onto the sheets.

Wait, red beads?

After half a minute of blindly fumbling for his glasses, he finally felt the cool, smooth lenses and jammed them into place on his nose, the room suddenly coming into focus (albeit still rather dark and difficult to see the finer details). Through what little moonlight actually hit his pillow, Harry stared down at his hands.

Imprinted in his palm were four small holes, welling up with more blood.

"What the hell?" Harry muttered under his breath, his sleep-deprived brain not fully comprehending what he was seeing.

The phrase "I know it like the back of my hand" implies that one should be very familiar with a part of themselves that they almost constantly see, and therefore if they had a level of expertise similar to one's own familiarity with their own hand, then they definitely know quite a bit about the subject in question.

And while not entirely meant to be taken so literally, most people can at least recognise their own hand and would be quick to catch anything remiss with it. Harry figured that he fell into this category.

So where and how did claws start growing from his nail-beds?

They were the same colour as his fingernails, though definitely much more opaque due to their new density. And sure enough, about a quarter-inch past the very tips of his fingers, the new additions to his extremities tapered off into very sharp points, still wet with his own blood.

'Fucking nightmares, fucking demon-god hybrids…' he vented to himself before collapsing back into the comforter, absent-mindedly dropping his glasses off the edge of the bed.

'Why is it always me?'

* * *

"That's enough!" Harry winced in sympathy for the blond klutz up on stage. Jaune may not have been the smartest or strongest guy around, but Harry could tell he had a decent heart. He kind of reminded Harry of Neville, who would keep going so long as he still had lungs. Anyone would be hard-pressed to find a better guy. After experiencing the dregs of battle, and the subsequent rage of soldiers, decency was a rare resource to be cherished.

Harry vaguely listened to Goodwitch admonish Jaune for his lack of attention to his Aura, letting his mind wander to the bargain he had struck. The reason he was even on Remnant.

'Not like I had any choice in the matter,' he thought bitterly.

Four targets. Four artefacts left behind by the Elder God of Light behind the back of the Younger. While he was willing to defer to his older brother in many cases, the Four Relics were created without any regard towards his wishes, and if there was anything one could do to earn the God of Darkness's ire, it was an attempt to control him.

The artefacts were created with the sole purpose of summoning the Brothers back to Remnant, made entirely without the Younger's knowledge. Unfortunately for the Eldest, his baby brother had no intention of returning to the planet he abandoned millennia ago.

Riiiiinnnnnnggg!

Harry looked up from his musings to see the class shuffling around, packing up to leave. Right as he was about to do the same, he was accosted by his blonde teacher.

"Mr. Mithryl, if you could stay behind, please," She called out.

He nodded back at her. "Of course, Professor."

He waited impatiently in his seat at the room slowly cleared, until finally the last stragglers left for lunch. Harry approached Goodwitch at her desk. "Madam," he greeted, bowing his head slightly.

"Thank you for staying, Mr. Mithryl. I promise, should this cut too far into your lunch hour, I will arrange for food to be brought to us."

"That would be appreciated, Professor."

From what he had gathered about her, Harry figured that Goodwitch was not one to dilly-dally. He was correct, as she made sure to cut right to the chase.

"I'm sure you've noticed by now that you are the only student who has yet to enter a spar in my class."

Harry wasn't all that shocked. He had been expecting something like this for about a week now.

"Yes ma'am, I realised something other than pure chance was occurring when the other students began to make repeat performances, however, I figured you had your reasons from preventing me from fighting. Especially considering my alarming lack of control."

Goodwitch raised an eyebrow. "Well, Mr. Mithryl, while I wasn't going to put it quite like that, you are essentially half-right. You have demonstrated time and time again that you have insufficient control over your anger, and during spouts of rage are prone to be very aggressive and dangerous to your peers. As there is often witless banter traded between combatants preceding most of the exchanges, I was concerned for your ability to deal." Her eyes narrowed at this last point. She appeared to be testing him.

He wasn't about to rise to such an obvious baiting, though.

"Ma'am, my emotional discipline is something I personally cultivated through years of mental strain and duress. However, in the last month alone, I have lost control twice now. That should not be possible." Harry took a second to appreciate the irony that he was, even then, losing control of his temper because of his lack of control. "I take pride in my ability to think rationally, and no one is more concerned than I that I appear to be slipping. I would not allow myself to fight either, and would have declined had you invited me up on stage."

Harry turned back to stare into the eyes so similar to his own. "But you claimed that I was 'half-right'. What am I missing?"

To say Goodwitch was surprised would be an understatement. Clearly, she had been expecting a more radical response, but Harry was not an average teenager.

"Yes," she confirmed. "You are only half-right. The second reason I have been reluctant to allow you into combat is that we have no record of your semblance. Now, normally we would chalk up such an absence in our records as you not having a semblance, but you have proven that you can do something that cannot be explained by basic Aura control. For safety, your semblance must be on record so that we know how to treat anyone injured by it."

Harry went silent. He had been given a semblance by the God of Darkness, but his patron had also warned him against advertising it to anyone.

"You would be considered an automatic threat," he had warned. "Judged before you speak your first word." Harry was no stranger to prejudice, especially for natural abilities. His second year readily came to mind.

"I believe that you would have a very adverse reaction to learning what exactly I do, Professor, so if you don't mind, I'd rather not say. I'm willing to remain a simple audience member during your class."

Her face scrunched up slightly. Clearly, that was not the answer she wanted to hear. "Be that as it may, Mr. Mithryl, I'm afraid I would have to insist. Even without my class, there is still a multitude of reasons why Beacon's faculty must be aware of your semblance. Now I will ask once more before I will have to force the issue: what is your semblance?"

Harry didn't know what to do. He really wished he hadn't left the Hood in his room; he could have used the counsel.

'Time to bite the bullet, Potter.'

He let out a quiet sigh, bracing himself for the inevitable explosion.

"I can metabolise Aura."

A pause.

"You can convert your own Aura into excess energy? As if it were simply another food source?"

'If only it were that simple. Well, in for a penny…'

"Sure. Mine. Yours. Ozpin's. The entire school's, should they be in range. There isn't a limit to how many at once, or how much I can hold and convert in my body. It simply becomes more of a strain to keep it there. If I take in too much, it leaks."

Her eyes went very wide. That definitely piqued her interest.

Harry could tell that her brain was running a thousand miles a minute, thinking over every possible use such a semblance could have, and coincidentally every single risk that he posed. Slowly she forced her eyes to meet his once more. Harry was sure that she was about to say something to him, but instead, she reached over for her scroll, dialling a number he couldn't see, still without ever breaking eye contact.

It picked up on the first ring. "Hello?"

"Ozpin. You need to come down here, immediately." Her voice was surprisingly steady.

"What happened? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. There is something you should know right away, something I'm hesitant to discuss over scrolls."

Ozpin went silent. Obviously, Goodwitch was rarely so cautious that she questioned their cybersecurity.

"Be right there." Click. He hung up.

The Professor finally looked away from Harry, instead choosing to stare above him at the stands, but Harry doubted she was admiring the woodwork.

"Screw it," she muttered under her breath. She disappeared behind her desk for a bit, fumbling with a drawer and pulling out a rectangular bottle filled about three quarters up with amber liquid, along with two glasses.

She poured a very generous volume into one, and a much more conservative amount into the other, before sliding the latter in front of him, slumping in her chair.

"Ma'am?" Harry asked, very confused at this point. For one, Goodwitch just gave him what he was ninety percent sure was a high-proof liquor, and for two, she slumped in her chair. Harry wasn't sure which shocked him more.

"Harley, if what you just told me is true, and I'm rather sure it is, then we cannot afford something as menial as professionalism right now. We're both going to need this." She almost mourned, holding up her drink to the light. She downed it in one, set her glass back down and poured herself another, which she chose to sip.

Harry picked up his own, still not certain that he wasn't being tricked somehow, and took a drink. It went down with a wince, the taste a bit harsh for him, but soon it mellowed out as the warmth from the alcohol settled in his stomach before spreading throughout his body.

Very little time had passed when Harry heard the door open. Ozpin, clutching his ever-present cane and mug, came rushing in.

"What is it, Glynda?" Ozpin asked, his tone very serious as he barely even glanced at Harry.

"You may want to sit, Ozpin."

"Glynda?"

"Harley Mithryl has an S-Ranked semblance."

Ozpin sat.

* * *

End of Chapter FIVE

A/N: A lot happened this chapter, even if it was one of my shortest, and I finally tipped my hand a bit on some of the big plot points of this story. I know that Team MRLD isn't even officially formed yet. All in due time.

Next chapter, everyone's favourite scarlet speedster. No, not the Flash.

Cheers!


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